


Small Dark Spaces

by LibertineQuarantine (elyndys), Missoneminute



Category: The Libertines
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:28:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23246290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elyndys/pseuds/LibertineQuarantine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missoneminute/pseuds/Missoneminute
Summary: Written by a friend for the Tumblr prompt "Post gig first closet they can find".
Relationships: Carl Barat/Pete Doherty
Comments: 4
Kudos: 47
Collections: Peter and Carl fics to lift our spirits during self-isolation





	Small Dark Spaces

The vicious hiss and boo of the crowd engulfed Peter as he threw down his guitar and stormed away, exit stage left, with a ragingly furious Carl stomping off in hot pursuit seconds later.

The pair of them were in short order engaged in a backstage row that was entirely nonsensical to the collection of worried bystanders gathered around them in abject terror.

Nonsensical or not, the bust up looked like it would erupt in fisticuffs any second - the pair of them inches apart, yowling and hissing like cats.

In came a panting Roger, who had chased after them off stage, camera in hand, snapping the ruckus for a short while before it was very evident he had to step in.

Roger gently tried to simmer Peter and Carl down, as did the assorted crew members, befuddled faces stricken with stress.

But Peter and Carl couldn’t, or wouldn’t, hear anyone but one another.

Then Roger saw the closet.

‘Right, that’s it!’ Roger snapped, the burly photographer easily grabbing the two of them by one shoulder each. ‘Both of you, into the closet and sort this out!’

John popped up behind Roger then, with impeccable timing.

‘In the closet?’ John deadpanned. ‘They aren’t out of it yet’.

Carl dramatically rolled his eyes while Peter, despite his stropping, couldn’t help but snigger.

It was the break in the tension that Roger needed to seize control.

‘In!’ Roger demanded, shoving them into the dark, slamming the door shut and holding the knob with all his might while Peter tried to jimmy it loose.

A quick-thinking crew member rushed forth with a set of jangling keys, locked them in, and that was that.

‘You have ten minutes to work it out, then you’re getting back on stage,’ Roger called out.

‘Aren’t they going to murder one another in there?’ a concerned staffer asked, fully expecting to find a pair of slumped-over bodies, hands grasped around each other’s necks, when they opened that door.

Roger raised an eyebrow. ‘Trust me, they will be fine. Everyone just give them some room,’ he said.

The shaken crew scrambled off, some dispatched to pacify the now-frantically chanting crowd.

Peter and Carl were left alone.

In the pitch black dark, they stood there for a moment or two, huffing in short, fuming breaths.

It was Carl who complained first. ‘This is stupid!’ he declared. 

‘Then leave!’ Peter snapped back.

‘Can’t,’ Carl said, trying the door knob. ‘It’s locked’.

As his eyes adjusted to the low light, Peter noticed they were wedged against some mops and buckets with only inches of space to spare.

‘Not much room in here, to do anything,’ Peter said without thinking.

‘Just as well!’ Carl replied, voice raised, ‘Because I’m not planning on it!’

Despite his protest, there was a certain high intonation in Carl’s quip that Peter recognised as the seedlings of desire.

A quickie in the closet was, after all, a shortcut to working out their woes. Of late, more often than not – in various closets, stairwells and bathrooms at that. 

A nice rush of endorphins to get them swooning, enough to not want to fight each other anyway, since those two instincts seemed to come from basically the same place.

Peter made the move – he placed his arm on Carl’s shoulder, heavily, and tilted his head down to meet his forehead.

Carl sighed. ‘I hate you,’ he said.

‘I love you,’ Peter said back, in the exact same tone.

Carl looked up at him, their eyes locked together forlornly in the dark. Another sigh, a resigned one.

‘Whose turn is it?’ Carl asked, as if they were on a roster. Peter laughed gently.

‘I just want to kiss you,’ Peter said softy. Then even more softly, with the kind of softness that made Carl immediately malleable, he added, ‘I haven’t for so long’.

It hadn’t been that long, in reality, but every parting, every episode of anger, felt like it pushed them miles and years apart. It was always so huge - everything they did felt twice the size it should be.

Carl pressed his forehead against Peter’s, a little billy goat nudge, then his face slid down, noses meeting, lips touching.

A blink, a breath, and their mouths mashed together.

They didn’t start slowly, or carefully - it was a big kiss, a vicious one, the kind of kiss that forces fury through lips, wrings it out across tongues, and is eagerly consumed until the war is over.

Peter was sweaty, near-wet, his shirt torn partway down the middle. His face was damp, salted droplets sat around his lips and fell onto Carl’s as they kissed.

Skin - Carl wanted skin; he shoved his hands into that ripped shirt, gripped Peter’s wet waist. Peter’s hands came up to grip Carl’s upper arms in turn - he held them so hard, fingers arched and digging.

Just a kiss. That was all they needed. The closet grew clammy and hot. 

Their bodies came alive in that intense little bubble, but they kept firm.

Just a kiss. Hands stayed where they were left. Pants remained zipped.

The kiss moved, though. From lips to necks, unashamedly consuming for miles, pops of sucks and drags of tongues from collarbone to ear and back to the lips, kissing cheeks and noses and eyes all the way.

It slowed down eventually, and quietly ended. They looked at one another warmly, Peter smiled, Carl smiled, Peter laughed, Carl threw open his arms, and clung.

They were jig-sawed into one another in a desperately close hug, rocking back and forth, eyes closed and blissed out, when the doorknob jiggled and the closet door creaked open.

A least a dozen eyes peered in through the blinding light, most of them still expecting corpses.

Peter and Carl squinted into the brightness.

‘Come on out,’ Roger said, extending an arm.

John, standing alongside him, was calmly eating a banana.

Gary stepped in to have a gander. ‘What’s bloody happened now?’ he asked.

John bit into his banana. ‘Peter and Carl have just come out of the closet,’ he said, chewing.

Carl dramatically rolled his eyes. Peter sniggered. Carl slung an arm over Peter’s shoulder.

It was time for the encore.


End file.
